


secrets we brought into the light

by TigerMoon



Series: family is a four-letter word [6]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, Drinking & Talking, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Team as Family, Trust Issues, no nobody's touching ruby or yang, qrow would kill them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 01:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10322273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerMoon/pseuds/TigerMoon
Summary: it's so much easier to discuss the ghosts of the past in the darkness of night.It's completely different to discuss your demons in the daytime, when everything is real.Ozpin's demons won't stay hidden in the dark, no matter how he tries - now it's up to Qrow to help him exorcise them before they destroy him.(sequel tosecrets we shared in the dark)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [secrets we shared in the dark](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9685190);PLEASE read that fic first before reading this one or you're going to get very, very lost.
> 
> Also, PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS ON THIS. I tagged this with certain things for a reason, people.

Qrow wakes up alone the next morning.

Warmth and light surround him when he stretches his arms out and yawns, a silent roar and drowsy smack of his lips. The down pillow wedged under his head smells like Ozpin, spicy myrtlewood and the crisp earthiness of old parchment. It should be comforting. It should be thrilling, to wake up here in Ozpin’s bed, but his neck is stiff and his shoulders sore and there’s a sickness in his heart that makes his soul ache. A grief that doesn’t want to be touched.

“Ah.”

His head jerks up at the sound. Standing there by the doorway in a thin ray of sunlight, owlishly startled, is Ozpin. He’s the picture of exhaustion, platinum hair mussed and wispy about his face like tufts of milkweed and his clothing rumpled. He looks terribly young and vulnerable without his glasses, Qrow notes, tawny eyes bloodshot beneath long grey lashes and cheeks all hollow.

It comes back to him, then, looking at the man as he hides behind the door. Ozpin, beside him in the moonlight, trembling and small. Ozpin, smiling through bitter tears. Ozpin sobbing against his shoulder, the grief and shame spilling out of him so very quietly. Part of him hopes the other doesn’t remember, but it’s a futile wish. He remembers. He can tell it by the set of Ozpin’s jaw now, the defeated slump of his shoulders. It’s clear in how he’s lingering so far away and how he’s avoiding his gaze.

He wants to ask if he’s all right, but that’s a stupid question. Of course he’s not. Neither of them are.

Qrow takes a deep breath and pushes his bangs out of his face. “’Morning,” he says, the smile on his face too broad and too strained to be anything but false.

Ozpin doesn’t return the greeting. He doesn’t even look at him; his gaze settles on an imaginary dust bunny below and to the right. “There’s... coffee in the kitchen.” His voice is hoarse from crying. “If you want it.”

This isn’t right. Nothing about this is right. Ozpin is the pillar of strength Beacon rests upon, the anchor that has steadied Qrow’s life since he came to the school ten years before. Nothing had seemed impossible before, not with his quiet determination and unyielding wisdom. Except the man Qrow had believed to be made of steel cracked in the moonlight, toppled from the pedestal he’d been forced upon; now he is shattered before him, a porcelain soul with the shards scattered to the winds.

The younger man pushes himself up out of the bed, away from the warm comfort and towards the tall, thin figure across the room. “Oz? About – about last night-”

He flinches at the words. That strikes him, terribly, because Ozpin has never been afraid of him before. Always, he has whispered to Qrow of the comfort he brings; to be a source of fear now sinks nausea to the pit of his stomach. “Don’t,” he says in a quiet voice.

“Don’t what?” Qrow moves towards him, hands out beseechingly; Ozpin takes a step backward. “I just want to help.”

Ozpin rubs the back of his hand across his face in a violent motion, unanswering but for the sound of ragged breath.

“Can’t we just – talk about it?” Qrow tries again, a note of desperation to his voice.

“I don’t _want_ to talk about it!” Ozpin rarely shouts, but his voice raises, cracks halfway through, thick with shame. Qrow’s so close he can see how tense Ozpin is, how his slender hands are fisted so tightly his nails are digging bloody crescents into his palms and how the muscles of his jaw ripple. For a second he does look Qrow in the eye, amber meeting crimson, and then he turns away again. “I just-” He’s so close to crying again. “I can’t, Qrow. I cannot speak of – of that. Not now. Not again.”

“Oz....” Qrow reaches out to touch him, then draws his hand back. He never agreed to let him help. That offer of help, so sincerely given in the moonlight, had gone unanswered – and is going to continue to go unanswered.

It will have to.

The only thing Ozpin knows to do is run away. Run away from the memory, the fear and pain and everything that reminds him of it, and now Qrow has become part of the reminder, he realizes. One wrong move in the night and everything has come crashing down, a house built on foundations of sand. He stands there helplessly, the gulf between them a canyon, impossible to cross.

Across from him, Ozpin gently touches his still-raised hand with the tips of his fingers. He breathes, slowly, in and out, sliding his touch over the other’s bony wrist before pushing it away. “Please,” Ozpin whispers brokenly.

Qrow lets his shoulders fall. “Okay,” he says, and watches him turn and walk away.

* * *

Ozpin avoids him – avoids everyone – for the next two days, staying in his office and rarely taking visitors unless needed.

He’s never there when Qrow stops by.

On the third day, Glynda sends him home.

(Ozpin is there within his gilded cage atop the Tower when he goes, but Qrow misses how he stands there at the glass and watches until he’s too far away for the headmaster to see him raise a hand in farewell.)

* * *

Patch is the closest thing Qrow has to home. He’d never count his apartment at Signal as a home; it’s just a temporary nest. The tribe had never been home; Beacon had been home for a long time, and was becoming home again, but now – well. Home isn’t home if those amber eyes and brilliant smile he loves are swallowed by the shadows.

So Patch is home for now.

It’s not a bad place to be, really. Tai’s house is on a prime spot of real estate, cozy and sheltered in the woods, with plenty of room for what was a growing family. He shakes that thought off, sipping at a can of beer as he leans against the railing of the back porch. Summer, Brothers rest her soul, would have smacked him for being negative. It’s plenty of room for the family that is left behind, anyway, Tai and Yang and Ruby and Qrow. He and Tai had cleared out a spot behind the house just a few weeks ago, actually, nice and warm in the rays of the setting sun.

There’s a swingset up on the cleared land now, two handmade swings and a slide built out of spare metal siding Qrow had bartered for. The girls are climbing all over it now, Yang with her hair in pigtails daring tiny Ruby to try swinging on her belly as Tai runs between the two, pushing them as they squeal in delight.

They’d built the swingset for Yang’s birthday two weeks ago. Fierce little Yang, eight years old, scuffed knees and gap-toothed smile and she was the same age Ozpin had been when-

When-

“ _It’s funny, really, that I thought I could make a change, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Qrow?_ ” Those words echo in his mind, the image of Ozpin sitting there in the moonlight, smiling through the pain – smiling for his sake, he realizes now, trying to be strong for him. And then he’d broken in Qrow’s arms, shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

No older than Ozpin had been. He closes his eyes tight against the images that haven’t stopped coming to his mind since that damned night. They haunt his nightmares worse than any memory of the tribe ever has. The image of Yang, crying and alone, as long-armed shadows reach out for her. Of Ruby, terrified and begging and helpless as rough voices laugh. Of a tiny silver-haired child, screaming for help that never came, will never come – _Gods, Oz,_ _what did they do to you, what did they_ _ **do**_ -

A tiny hand tugs at his shirt and he whips around, knocking over his can of beer to the dirt. Wide silver eyes regard him curiously from under tangled bangs. “Unk’ Qwow?” Ruby asks around her mouthful of thumb. Summer had tried to break her of that habit, but after her death she’d gone right back to it, and neither he nor Tai had the heart to try to stop her. “You okay?”

Qrow drops to one knee and grabs Ruby up tight against his chest. The nightmares aren’t real, at least not these; Ruby is safe, unharmed and untouched and still innocent. Protected. She makes a grumpy noise at being held so tightly and he laughs into her hair, a broken little sound. His girls are safe. It’s far too late for that little boy with silver hair and amber eyes, but he can protect them. Yang comes up behind her sister and Qrow pulls her in as well, knocking his forehead against hers as he takes a shuddering breath. The little girls he’s helped raise since they were born, his family; he can protect them. He _will_ protect them.

“Hey.” A huge hand claps him on the back; Taiyang is staring at him when he looks up, his blue eyes searching. When he doesn’t respond, the brawler sighs and stands back up. “Help me get the kids to bed and we’ll talk, okay?”

He nods and stands, Ruby hanging off his neck and Yang clinging to his hand. They’re a broken little family, Summer’s absence so acutely felt, but it’s something. And it’s important, to him, to see them safely tucked away where no one can harm them. So he plays the part, pretends to be strong and cheerful, until Ruby’s yawns catch up with her and Yang nods off midway through her second bedtime story. They’re easily fooled.

Their father, not so much.

Tai, his eyes sunken with exhaustion, follows him back out to the porch once the kids are asleep. “You’re doing better,” Qrow notes as he takes a seat beside him on the steps. There’s a bottle of whiskey dangling from the brawler’s fingers; he takes a draw from it before passing it over to his old teammate.

“I have my good days,” he says as Qrow refills his flask. “It gets a little...easier, I guess. I wish it didn’t, but. I have my girls. Can’t lay in bed and mope even when I want to.” He scratches at the underside of his unshaven jaw. The blonde hairs there have grown even longer than Qrow’s unshaven stubble. “I did enough of that already.”

“Summer’d kick your ass if you did that on Yang’s birthday.”

“Yeah.” He rolls his neck, cracking it. “What was all that about earlier?”

The taller man pauses and takes a drink from the bottle, three long swallows that have his eyes burning. “Dunno what you’re talking about,” he gasps.

“Qrow.” Taiyang takes the bottle away from him. He’s never been the emotional type, or even very sensitive, but concern is writ large all over his face as he looks at his brother-in-law. “You looked like you were gonna up and cry all over my kids.”

Raking a hand through his raven hair, Qrow looks back down at the ground. “You’ve got enough to deal with, Tai,” he says roughly.

“And you don’t?” He punches him in the arm, just enough to shift him over. It’s an action meant to lighten the mood but it’s far too gentle for Taiyang’s usual horseplay. He sighs. “You’ve been there for me after Raven left, and Summer… I’m not great with emotional shit, Qrow. You know that. But I can at least listen. I even promise not to laugh if it’s something dumb.”

Qrow snorts a laugh. “Thanks.” The humor fades fast, though, and he slouches forward over his knees and twirls his flask in his hands. “I don’t know what to do, Tai.”

Tai’s hand is warm on his shoulder, encouraging, as he works up the courage to speak. “There’s… I… there’s someone I… care about. A lot. And- he was….” Qrow claws at the air for a moment, searching, before the words suddenly explode out of him in a rush. “He was _hurt_ , Tai. He was hurt so godsdamned _bad_ , long before I ever showed up on the scene, these bastards came along and just _broke_ him like-” He stops. His eyes are burning again, but this time it’s not the alcohol making them do it. Taiyang watches him in the dimness of the porchlight as he drags a hand over his face.

The other man doesn’t say anything, just watches, and the rage suddenly builds within him at the scrutiny. “And there’s _nothing I can do!_ ” His voice is a hiss, bitter and furious. “I tried to help him! I did! But he won’t help himself, or he can’t, and either way all I can do is watch this tear him up inside! I am so fucking _useless-_ ”

Qrow lashes out; his fist splinters the wooden step he’s sitting on with a resounding crack. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says miserably, his vision blurring. “I don’t know what to _do._ ”

“He’s grieving.”

Taiyang isn’t looking at Qrow; he’s looking up at the moon, azure eyes distant and pained. “Grief is hungry, Qrow,” he says. “Grief is empty, and it eats at your soul until you are hollow inside. Until you’re blind to everything but the pain and the emptiness where the missing pieces were. After a while, that’s what you become – missing pieces that can never be filled again.” He absently reaches for his wedding band, sliding it back and forth on his finger. “You’re grieving too, Qrow.”

Qrow scrubs at his eyes with the palm of one hand. It’s true, he realizes; he’s grieving. Grieving for the child Ozpin had once been, perhaps. Grieving because he had never really been a child, had innocence torn away and destroyed night after night. “How do you live with it?” he asks to himself, muffled.

It’s meant to be rhetorical, but Tai sighs and answers anyway. “I have you,” he says. “Yang and Ruby. Pete and Bart and the gang at Signal. You were there. You listened. Let me wallow when I needed to and then dragged my sorry ass up when I didn’t. That’s – it annoyed the shit out of me when I wanted to give up, not gonna lie, but I’m glad you didn’t.” His voice grows soft. “I can’t imagine trying to survive this alone. I don’t think I could. I don’t think anyone could.”

“You’re right.” Because he’s not really surviving, is he? High atop the Tower in his gilded cage, so terribly alone – Qrow slips his flask back into his pocket behind his ever-present greatsword and gets to his feet, his joints cracking in protest. “Tell the girls I’m sorry, but something came up. They’ll understand.”

Taiyang gives him a sad, lopsided smile. “Sure you don’t want to stay the night? I can take the couch.”

He shakes his head, his wild black hair already flaring, feather-prickled, and looks towards Vale. “Thanks, Tai,” he says. “For everything.” And in a flash there is no man there but a crow, glossy wings beating against the starlit sky as it soars towards home.

* * *

“Come in.”

Ozpin doesn’t even look up from his desk when Qrow walks into his office. He’s hunched over his scroll, papers in uncharacteristic disarray around him; one inkstained hand comes up to rub at his forehead as he watches. “Glynda, I’m really quite bus-”

“Glynda went home a few hours ago.” His head snaps up at the sound of that familiar voice, amber eyes meeting crimson for the first time in almost a week. Ozpin looks like hell – there is no other way to put it. He’s as neatly put together as always, but there’s a terrible thinness to his cheeks, deep circles like bruises under his eyes, his silver hair limp and dull about his face. He sighs and steps over to the side of the desk, leaning up against it and looking down at the older man with eyes gone soft with worry. Ozpin stares back up at him, a mix of longing and trepidation swirling in the deep chocolate of his irises. “We need to talk, Oz.”

There’s no missing how he tenses at that. “Qrow, I thought I made it clear,” he starts, his voice tight. “I _can’t_ discuss that-”

“Is it that you can’t, or that you’re afraid to?”

Ozpin’s amber eyes widen in pain before he turns away. “Both,” he says.

He bites his lower lip before reaching out and touching the other’s slim hand. “I told you, that night, that I wanted to help you, Oz. I said it and I meant it. Unless….” Qrow swallows, a sudden feeling of panic surging up within him. “Unless you want to end this? Us?”

Ozpin’s cold fingers fold tightly over Qrow’s, and he’s suddenly clutching him as if he’ll disappear if he lets go. “No,” he breathes. “No, Qrow, no. I-” He glances back up at him, then down again, at their interlaced fingers. “I don’t want to lose you. But – I’m afraid, Qrow.” There’s something heartwrenching about how small his voice is when he says that, admitting to such a human weakness, and the huntsman sits back on his ankles beside him to look him in the eye. “I’m afraid I’ll lose you anyway, if you hear the truth. It’s partly why I’ve never – never told anyone.”

He draws in a sharp breath. “What about your your mother, or your father? Didn’t you tell-”

A bitter laugh bubbles up out of him, thick with despair. “My _father_ ,” Ozpin chokes. Something in his eyes turns dark, and Qrow feels his soul sink through the bottom of the Tower. “My father was the first,” he repeats, his voice desperate and childlike and so, so hurt. “Qrow, I was his _child_ -”

“Okay,” Qrow says, tangling his hand up in Ozpin’s hair. The headmaster hides his head in the hollow of his throat, takes a shaking breath, and Qrow ghosts his lips over the shell of his ear. He suddenly begins to sob, an awful sound in the ticking quiet of the office. This isn’t quiet weeping. It’s _ugly:_ hot tears soaking Qrow’s collar; hoarse, shuddering sobs that wrack Ozpin’s slim frame until he’s struggling to breathe; tiny hiccuping sounds between coughs and choking as the sobs cut off his breath. This has been building up for years – decades – sorrow and shame held tightly in now ripped open and pouring out like infection from a wound. It’s awful, all of it, and Qrow holds him through it all. “It’s okay.”

“I can’t.” He’s talking, at least, though his voice is a strangled thing that Qrow can barely understand. “I can’t – not now-”

“Oz. It’s all right.” Ozpin leans back a bit, snuffling, pulling off his glasses and rubbing shamefacedly at his scarlet-rimmed eyes with the heel of his palm. Qrow gently strokes the tear stains away from his cheek and manages a smile when he looks him in the eye. Small, and sad, but for him they will always be real. There’s a bitterness to all of this, an empty ache – grief, of a kind so deep it burns. Perhaps that’s better, though, to burn than to drown alone. Here, if Ozpin burns in his grief, Qrow can be there to help guide him through the flames. “Whenever you’re ready. I can wait. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be right here.”

* * *

Qrow knocks once upon Ozpin’s apartment door before letting himself in.

School’s been in session for several months now, along the chaos that always comes with a new school year, and it’s kept him busier than he’d like. Flying between Beacon and Signal is hard when both he and Ozpin are so busy, but he manages. There is always time for coffee and hands held tight and quiet times shared between them.

And if that’s all they share, that’s okay too. Qrow is patient.

This night is different, though. Ozpin’s sitting on the couch when he strolls in, back ramrod straight and hands clasped tightly in his lap. His face is drawn, lips pursed and eyes shadowed as he watches him stroll in. “Everything okay?” the younger man asks, walking over and sitting across from him.

“… I.” Ozpin pauses, then holds a hand out to him. His amber eyes glow in the light of the fireplace, soft and hesitant but no longer quite as afraid. “I think it’s time we talked.”

Qrow smiles, takes his hand, and squeezes.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought!


End file.
